Buster

by SOREN TRIMBLE

My family handled quarantine well. It took years for us to get sick‒of Covid, at least. Only took a few months cooped up in the same house to get sick of each other.

The most glaring symptom was our increasingly disproportionate reactions to the smallest issues. Most of my episodes involved dishes, as that became my chosen hobby (please remember how extremely boring this time was). The mere sight of a dirty plate in the sink sent me into a seething, teeth-grinding, maybe-I’ll-chuck-it-into-the-wall-thinking rage. Not that putting a dirty plate in the dishwasher was all that difficult for me. THAT WAS EXACTLY MY POINT, THOUGH! It’s not difficult to put dirty plates in the dishwasher! I refused to let my family pass such a light burden to me. You have arms, carry it yourself! Call it arbitrary, but that is where I drew the line.

We stacked all our little molehills on top of each other to make a Mount Everest of resentment. Words were said. Silent treatments ensued, although they were difficult to maintain with no other people to talk to. Formal détentes were forgone in favor of gradually resuming our routine as if nothing had happened. Then something would happen, and the cycle would start again, only intensified by the unresolved anger from the previous conflict.

We decided we needed a change of scenery. What we really needed was a break from each other, but a change of scenery was the next best thing. And we knew exactly where to go to cure our isolation sickness: an Airbnb in the Appalachian Mountains. The kind of place where trees fall with no one around to tell if they make a sound. It seemed like the clear answer at the time.

I should note that the four of us‒my mom, her boyfriend Rob, our dog Molly, and I‒drove in two cars just so my mom could be alone for a few hours. Molly, however, was allowed to ride with her, which was in no way offensive to her human companions.

Back then, the political climate felt equally divided‒completely unlike it does today. The news was a cage match between Safety and Liberty, but only one of them wore a mask. We knew which side of the ring we’d entered as our mid-size SUVs negotiated the unpaved, winding one-lane road that led to our high-altitude getaway. We passed miles of open fields, studded with farms, trucks, and flags (some of which lacked the prevailing number of stars and stripes, if you know what I mean). But the real “We’re not in Kansas anymore” moment, if Kansas was a suburban liberal bubble, was when my mom called to warn us about the black jockey statue that “jumped” into her headlights from the middle of a field. Bet she wished she wasn’t alone for that, though!

When the sun rose the next morning, illuminating wafts of coffee steam on the wraparound porch with a stunning, expansive view of the valley below, we were already ready for a change of scenery from our change of scenery.

“Let’s check out the little town,” my mom proposed. Good idea, poor choice of words.

“Little” was an understatement and “town” was a misnomer. The half-street consisted of a general store, an ice cream truck in the parking lot of the general store, a few other abandoned-looking buildings, and railroad tracks (to supply one general store?).

“Where to first?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

After polishing off some soft serve and re-applying our masks, we ventured into the general store. Inside was a charming collection of knicknacks to point at, including but the real highlight was seeing rural people in the flesh. They wore plaid and smiled, and wished us a happy Easter even though we didn’t buy any of the knickknacks we had so enthusiastically pointed at. Perhaps if we hadn’t been wearing masks over our crooked noses, they would have thought twice about those festive farewells, but I’m glad they didn’t. Contrary to what you may hear from people who are almost exclusively not Jewish, Jewish people aren’t usually offended when people wish us happy Christmas or Easter. We were the opposite of offended; we were touched. Nevertheless, I wondered if it ever occurred to people in this area that not everyone celebrates Easter.

The drive back to the house was different in the light of day. There were horses, chickens, pigs, and cows wandering about. You might say the fields were alive with moo-sic! Or make some other embarrassing pun if you’re like me and don’t spend much time around farm animals in your day-to-day life. I couldn’t believe that people actually interacted with such odd-looking and foul-smelling creatures every day. I wondered about those people: do we have anything in common?

I had a feeling we did, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. The obvious answer was that we were all human beings who differed in our lifestyles and beliefs but shared most of the same fundamental values, including love, wisdom, loyalty, health, truth, happiness, hard work, and much, much more. But there was something else, something deeper than that…

DOGS! It was dogs. They were lounging by the road, showing off how trusted and content they were, free to roam beyond the fences that contained the other animals. I fawned over them as we passed, my face so close to the window that my breath fogged up the glass and I had to wipe it off to see more of those sweet widdle fur balls!

Cut to my dog pouting at us from inside her travel crate as if she somehow knew she was being cheated of the freedom her country cousins enjoyed. “Alright, we’ll take you for a walk. Stop looking like you’ve been locked in a basement your whole life.”

Now, we were pretty confident Molly wasn’t going to run away. She likes us and, more importantly, she likes that we give her food occasionally. If we took her out without a leash like the other dogs, she probably wouldn’t intentionally run away. But she was a beagle, and they tend to follow their noses. She’d probably follow hers into the woods when we weren’t looking, and not be able to find her way back in the unfamiliar environment. Therefore, we had no choice but to parade her on leash past all the dogs that knew what true freedom felt like.

I wouldn’t say we spoil my dog. She only has two sweaters, and we rarely make her wear them. Her food doesn’t look the same as ours. And she only has one toy that, no matter how badly she mangles it, she will never be able to destroy (It’s a plastic ring, and I swear it was forged in the fires of Mount Doom in the land of Mordor). That said, she has never looked more pampered than she did next to those dogs.

They were fascinated with her. What was this strange creature tethered to the two-legged ones? Was it leading them, or were they leading it? Could it not walk on its own? It looks and smells like one of us, but, when we sniff it, it stands frozen like it has never met one of its kind before. Does it think it is also a two-legged? Before long, they returned to their respective lawns, presumably to mull over their thoughts. We bid them a happy Easter and resumed our walk.

Hard to tell what Molly thought of them. Was she aware that she stuck out like a sore thumb‒or a similar analogy that she might understand better, given her lack of thumbs? She seemed wary, especially toward the largest and mange-iest of the dogs. But, if she was ashamed of her own (comparative) cleanliness, she kept her head held high like the proud pampered pooch she was. It’s like they say: you can take a dog out of the suburbs, but you can’t take the suburbs out of the‒

Fork. The road split abruptly in two. The left way corkscrewed up a hill through dense foliage, while the right continued straight until disappearing at a slight bend.

“Which way do we go?” I implored my company. My mom, for maybe the first time ever, looked just as perplexed as me. Rob scratched his head, but it was as bare of ideas as it was of hair. Molly just sniffed the grass, as usual.

We were alone on a one-lane country road, not a street sign or a friendly face in sight. We could turn around and go back the way we came, but then how would we live with ourselves? What would those dogs think? These out-of-towners got lost? Here? There’s only one road and it’s a loop! Can’t they smell their way back home like everyone else? Softies.

They’d be right, too. We were too soft, probably from all the showering we did. We’d surely crumble under the weight of their judgment. Then again, wasn’t continuing on without direction to avoid embarrassing ourselves an even greater sign of weakness? I sighed. We clearly weren’t cut out for this kind of life.

To add to our woes, we were being followed. Our stalker was stocky, with little ears and a wrinkled expression. Unlike his country folk, he sported a thick collar.

“That’s the kind that goes with an invisible fence,” my mom observed. “It should shock him if he leaves his owners’ property.”

The key word in that observation, we found out, was “should.” The dog kept coming toward us, his face still wrinkled but untroubled. This time, my mom, Rob, and I froze like deer in headlights, but this dog didn’t bother sniffing us. He walked straight through, ignoring the left fork of the road. About twenty yards ahead, he finally stopped and looked back expectantly.

“I think he wants us to follow him.”

For a moment, everyone was speechless. Were we really going to follow a random dog from we-don’t-even-know-where?

I shrugged, “He probably knows his way around.”

Tentatively, we stepped forward. The dog moved, too. Every so often, he glanced back as he walked. Always in front, yet never out of sight.

“This is amazing!” If Rob had had hair, it would’ve been standing up. “He’s leading us!”

“It’s like he’s done this before,” I was equally captivated, but trying not to let on about it.

“Yeah, but hopefully he’s taking us to the right place,” my mom remarked, although I could tell she was also a little awed. We aren’t a religious family, but, for a moment, we felt a lot like our Israelite ancestors following Moses across the Red Sea. This dog was our savior. He deserved a more worthy name than “this dog.”

“How about we call you Buster?” I asked him. Buster didn’t object. Then again, he wasn’t really the objecting type.

Buster pressed onward as the forest grew denser and quieter. His gait was easygoing, shoulder bones rolling like gentle waves to the shore. Unwittingly, we took up his rhythm. Far more isolated than we’d been since the Spring, yet far less. Our arms were the branches of the trees, their leaves were hair, and the bare ones were bald, like Rob. In many ways, we became one with the world.

Slowly, civilization returned. Less trees, more fences. Pasture, houses. Horses trotting. Their hoofbeats building. Pounding the dirt at the edge of the fence. Behind us, beside us, within us, beyond us. Buster burst into a sprint, keeping up with the pack from our side of the fence. They veered, then disappeared. When the dust cleared, Buster was far ahead.

He looked at us for a pause, as if to say, This is where I leave you. Then he left us, in a daze.

I unhooked Molly. She’d be fine; we all knew the way now.

Shaking my head, I muttered, “Strange place.” My family murmured affirmatively.

“The locals are nice, though.”

–

---

Soren Trimble studies Environmental Science & Policy at the University of Maryland, but she learns by exploring the wider world. She likes to get lost in the mountains, tanned in the sun, and drenched in the rain. When she grows up, she wants to be a dog. They seem to have it good.

© 2026, Soren Trimble